


The Walls of Nargothrond

by Wanderbird



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Bilbo in Valinor, Gen, Nargothrond, Post-Lord of the Rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:06:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26182381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wanderbird/pseuds/Wanderbird
Summary: As a scholar, being surrounded by people even older than the Sun and Moon was *fascinating*. Even mighty kings like Finrod Felagund seemed practically overjoyed to speak to a mortal again in this land of ever-living elves, a fact which Bilbo took cheerful advantage of in his studies. It was really very convenient. So when said elven-king offers to take Bilbo on a tour through his memories of Nargothrond, the hobbit gleefully agrees.Of course he does.He wants to know everything.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 28
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	The Walls of Nargothrond

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bunn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunn/gifts).



> Inspired by Bunn's art of Finrod in Nargothrond, which is the art embedded in the story here.

One of the best parts of his life in Aman, Blibo had long felt, was the company. The hobbit was a scholar at heart and always had been. Some of Valinor’s inhabitants seemed to think of Bilbo as a curiosity more than anything else, which rather put him off. But others—a great many of the elves he’d met who had once lived in Middle Earth—seemed relieved to interact with him. It was quite the odd sensation. He wasn’t at all certain what to make of it.  
But as a scholar, being surrounded by people older than the Sun and Moon was _fascinating._ Even if he did rather have a tendency to put his foot in his mouth.

“You know, I don’t think I’d ever heard anything of Nargothrond before it got wrecked by that dragon. Glaurung, was it? Elrond said something about a terribly tragic human named Turin, and I believe Hurin was supposed to have visited the ruins at some point to take some piece of jewelry or other from some odd fellow living there… You elves seem to have far too many important pieces of jewelry in your history! In any case, were you around for that bit?”

The elf watched him in silence for a long moment then, and Bilbo suppressed the urge to search for excuses. Had he said something unforgiveably rude? This did not look like the face of an elf lost in memory, yet he was staring and silent. But perhaps he had not offended after all, for at long last the elven-king spoke.  
“You are certainly full of questions.” Finrod mused, and the elf’s eyes were fixed on him. Bilbo felt rather like a very bold mouse, in that moment, paralyzed by the gaze of a rather surprised-looking cat.

Still, the Hobbit pasted a cheery smile on his face. “I suppose I am! Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I have always wondered about the world of old, and it is hard enough to extract clear answers from your folk as it is. I fear I will never learn anything really interesting unless I make my curiosity quite plain indeed.”  
Lord Finrod laughed. “You are hardly the first mortal friend to tell me as much!” Teeth flashed silver in his smile, and Bilbo relaxed. “I may have lived through millennia of history, but digging out the details on demand tends to be difficult. Still, there may be a solution.” Finrod pursed his lips. “Come with me then, Master Bilbo. If we are careful, in Irmo’s garden we may walk the paths of memory.”

It was with hesitation that Bilbo replied. “Why only if we are careful?”

The elf’s mouth ticked up in amusement, but his eyes turned oddly sober. “Do not worry, Master Baggins. We must only avoid the center of the garden and leave when we grow tired, for the Gardens of Lorien are the heart of all dreams. It does not do to linger too long in that realm— even without counting the rare dangers of the place itself, the Lord of Dreams is ill-suited to corporeal senses in the extreme. I believe one of my cousins ran across him as a matter of fact, in our youth. Irmo noticed him and woke; and little Makalaurë fell into a sleep that did not lift for weeks. Even then, the dreams would take him back for a time at random forever after—though it did not hurt his singing.” Finrod paused, as though a thought had struck him. “Which certainly adds up. He always claimed that music helped him stay awake.”

Bilbo blinked. He had expected Valinor to be a new adventure, but he had not thought it would be _dangerous._ Though it did seem like a rather less frantic sort of danger than nearly getting made into dinner by trolls. “Perhaps I shall make a study of your Valar too, someday,” he said.  
“Perhaps you shall!” chuckled Finrod. “I suppose I should expect nothing less of the mortal who sailed to these lands alongside my supposedly-banished sister. Let no-one say you are a coward!” 

Lord Finrod stood up then with enviable smoothness, offering Bilbo a hand as soon as he had brushed the grass from his clothes. The elderly hobbit took it gratefully.  
“To Lorien, then.” Bilbo wrestled his cane beneath him, and they were off.

* * *

“So it is Nargothrond that interests you,” the Lord Finrod mused. They stood at the entrance to a garden, all glimmering plants with a light Bilbo had never seen, and enchanting smells that almost seemed to whisper in his mind. The gate itself was made of two great trees clothed in silver bark and leaves that shone like gold, twining about themselves in an arch of glittering life. “I can show you Nargothrond. It is not the _best_ work I have seen, though perhaps I have more criticism toward that great city than I should. I did help build it, and the artist rarely sees perfection in their own work. And I must admit that the inner gardens held beauty and strangeness beyond measure. May I take your hand?”  
“My hand?” Bilbo blinked. “Very well, though I am surprised by your change in subject.”  
“It is nothing personal!” Finrod chuckled. “I only wish to ensure we are not separated before reaching our destination—and speaking of which, if we should get separated, be not afraid to ask the Maiar for advice. It is the duty of all the Maiar who roam Lorien to ensure none of us children who wander here get hurt.”  
“Children!” Bilbo felt himself ruffle at that, though he gave his hand over and followed the elf slowly into the garden. “I am one hundred and twenty-nine years old! That is quite far along, for a hobbit!”  
“And I am eight thousand, nine hundred and sixty-eight, by the count of the Sun.” Finrod smiled, and the rueful amusement was clear on his face. “We are all children to them, for I suppose we are all _their_ children, in a relational sense.”  
“I suppose.” The old hobbit made a face. “Come, then. Take me to this reconstuction of—”

They were there.

Or they were somewhere, at least. Wind whistled on Bilbo’s face, damp grass tickled his feet—“Where are we?”  
The elven-king spoke.  
“We stand in Taur-En-Faroth, the Hills of the Hunters. Below us just ahead is the river Narog, and beside us lies its tributary Ringwil.” With that, he began walking, slow and calm. As they approached the river Narog in its canyon, a great white tower flickered into existence across from it, with a bridge between them, though when he blinked again, tower and bridge were both singed and badly stained. “Do not touch the bridge, Master Baggins, for it is not truly there.” Finrod cautioned. “It was not built during my time. It is only here as I recall seeing it through the tapestries of Vaïre in the Halls.”  
“Then where…” Bilbo frowned. “I do not see a city here.”  
“It is here.” Finrod’s voice held nothing but confidence, and perhaps a hint of grief. “The city was always well-hidden, while I ruled. The better to shelter us in war.”

With delicate steps, the two wandered down a narrow track toward the river. The path was surprisingly even—but still, Bilbo made good use of his companion’s steady hand to lean on. Finrod kept casting glances at the great door carved into the cliff by the bridge, the one that flickered in and out of existence. Bilbo really wasn’t sure what the elf was thinking, there. But eventually they came to a particular spot on the cliffside, where moss hung in a carpet down the wall.  
Finrod relaxed. “Here it is,” he murmured. Callused hands slipped up the wall, knocking at the stone beside the moss until he found—something. Finrod smiled in satisfaction. “I thought so. Irún did good work with the doors. Even I have trouble finding them, after all these centuries.”  
“Dwarf-work?” Bilbo asked, and he knew his voice betrayed his surprise. “Like in Erebor?”  
“Perhaps.” The elf shrugged. “I don’t believe I have had the pleasure of visiting that place.”  
Bilbo shut his mouth. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t have,” he said after a moment. “It was not founded until the Third Age.” At his companion’s faint look of curiosity, Bilbo continued. “The dwarves built it, you know. In a mountain. And they had a hidden side door much like this, which they escaped through when the dragon attacked.”  
“Ah.” Finrod’s mouth twisted. “Underground cities and dragons have a bit of a history together, I suppose. Still. Welcome to Nargothrond.”

The rock parted beneath his hands.

Bilbo stepped through—and his walking stick nearly fell from his fingers. An intake of breath whispered soft astonishment through the air.  
“…the light!” the ancient Hobbit managed at last. “How did you—where does it—”

Finrod smiled, and his eyes flowed over with memory. “Tiny tunnels in the rock, filled with mirrors and lenses.” He lifted his arm, and the skin seemed dappled with little points of blue and orange. “Some of the glass is stained, to give it color. We only built such lights in the outer rooms, though. The tunnels are very tricky to maintain.”  
It took several long seconds for Bilbo to untie his tongue. Even the entryway, all white limestone bathed in light that came from no visible source, was enough to snatch his breath away! He pushed further into the city, one hand on his guide’s arm.

“And you—you and your people carved all this from the stone yourselves?!” Past a curtain of some sort of dangling lichen, soft and delicate as the finest of Hobbit lace-work, Bilbo looked out upon more of the city, laid out in a great open chamber before him. It bustled with the blurry ghosts of people, some working between massive pillars of stone, others playing in the small stream that curled through the center. A few were even climbing the winding stairs up to the entryway, and there seemed to be a sort of system with ropes and pulleys to move a wooden platform up and down as well. The lights shone here, too, though they refracted oddly through those half-transparent silhouettes, and were supplemented by lantern-light even in the day.  
“All of it?!” A sharp bark of laughter. “Not at all, Master Bilbo.” Finrod led him toward the stair with memory gleaming in his face. “Most of the caves were already here when we arrived, carved out only by the running water of Narog. Others, like this chamber which became the market, were built long before us by the Petty-Dwarves, centuries before ever I came from Valinor!”  
Blibo blinked. “I’ve never heard of Petty-Dwarves. Though by the name, I’d say I’ve met a few already!”

The elf-lord’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. It closed. “No. I suppose you wouldn’t have met them, come to think of it.”

All of a sudden, the cave went dark.  
“Oh!” the hobbit cried. “Now why would you go and do a thing like that?”

There was a sound behind them, the whisper of that living curtain pulled aside. Bilbo whirled—and there, _there_ was a light, a silvery lantern in a familiar grasp.  
“Is that—” Bilbo whispered. “Is that you?”

There was no answer from above him, so Bilbo kept talking. “He doesn’t look like you. He looks all _young_ and _weary._ And there is a wildness to his eyes—I don’t think I would have liked him.”

The young Finrod crept in with complete disregard for an old hobbit’s opinion. His face was haggard in the light of that lamp, his golden hair oddly dull. Something dark dripped from his hairline and onto the floor. Rain? Blood? Bilbo shut his mouth.  
“Any sign?” A hoarse whisper came from outside.  
“Not that I can see.” Young Finrod did not relax. There was a sound of marching from far away, and it clearly alarmed the elf at least as much as it did Bilbo. “Get in here already! If we do not rest, it will be only a matter of time before we’re overwhelmed.”  
“Oh, like _you’re_ the one insisting we stop,” the other speaker said dryly. Still, the figure crept inside, and a couple dozen others after them, and the hood fell from their face to reveal an elven woman with an ugly bruise all down her face. “ _You_ need to get that gash in your skull tended to, Artafinwë, before you fall over!”  
Young Finrod rolled his eyes. He was plainly about to give a retort, when something hissed words into the darkness.

“ _Elves!_ ” 

Bilbo jumped. He peered at what he thought were walls, and could just pick out the orange glinting off of dark eyes and sharpened implements. Were those…

“Dwarves?” Finrod sounded honestly confused. “I thought—” Something unreadable crossed his face, before a diplomat’s mask slammed a smile over it. “Never mind. Greetings! I am Finrod of the Noldor,” he said quietly, though Bilbo could hear him easily from several feet away. “My apologies for barging in here uninvited. I was not aware these caves were already inhabited, though I suppose it may not have made a difference either way. I—we—seek shelter from the Orcs and the Balrogs hunting the river this night.”  
A hushed conversation ensued, in that strange language he had once heard Thorin speak. Eventually, there came a reply in gently-accented Sindarin, no doubt from the same Dwarf as before. “You trespass where you are not welcome!” The Dwarf spoke. “Leave, forget you ever entered here, and we may let you live.”  
Young Finrod sucked in a breath. “I…” He hesitated. “I apologize. I’m sorry. We do not mean to trespass, but there are armies after us, and I know for a fact that Gorthaur hunts with them. They have no reason to search these cliffs at present. But if we leave, he will surely see us, for that Maia is perceptive beyond belief, and your fortress here will no doubt be found.”  
 _Gorthaur?_ Bilbo wondered. _Another name for Sauron, I think.  
_ There was another conversation. This time, it seemed as much an argument as a discussion, until that one spokesdwarf gave answer.

“So you kill us if you leave, and slaughter us in sleeping if you stay.” A snort. “Why should we trust the word of an elf?”  
Young Finrod seemed so very tired. “I have no proof to give you. By my word, I swear we will not harm you if you let us stay, and we will leave if you bid us go. None of my company, myself included, were even on this continent when your people were hunted and killed, and I would not have allowed it if we were. Please. If you will take any recompense, we have only a little coin on our persons, for we were not expecting such pursuit when we left on our guard patrol. My people must continue when the army is past, but if you wish, I will gladly sing or teach or do ought else to pay you for your hospitality. If we all survive this night, I will be in your debt.”   
Another Dwarf growled. “Damned right, you will be.” There was no lowering of weapons.

“You will leave all weapons in our care,” the spokesdwarf said at last. “Every knife, every blade, or mace, or even a pointed _fork._ Carry them any deeper into the caverns, and we will slit you open before we let a single Elf leave. Attempt to leave us in the night, and we will do the same. You will sleep under a guard. If there are injuries that need care before you can safely leave, you will come to _us_ for tending. Do you accept?”  
“They mean to kill us while we’re helpless!” an elf hissed, but Finrod shushed them.

He sighed.  
“I see no other option, honoured hosts.” Young Finrod tried to dip forward in a bow, but stumbled, barely keeping from smacking that bloodied forehead into the floor. He made some strangled sound that could have been a laugh. “I accept, and if any of my people will not follow me in a truce, they should not have come this far by my side.” Gingerly, he eased into a sitting position. He began pulling blades from his person, one by one, and the bow from his back, and only the slightest hesitation betrayed distrust in handing any of it to a Dwarf.  
After a pause, the others followed.

“So you’ve always been a smooth talker, I see!” Bilbo commented with amusement. “You look like something the cat dragged in, and yet here you are, making pretty promises to a bunch of Dwarves while they hold spears to your throat. You’re certainly more diplomatic than the other Elves I’ve met.” He was getting worried about the elder Finrod. He hadn’t so much as twitched since the caves went dark, nor said a single word— but maybe it was just that thing Elves did, with the remembering.  
Fortunately for the old Hobbit’s nerves, the next voice came from the elder Finrod’s throat.  
“I suppose so.” He sounded immeasurably sad. “I fear to think what would have happened if I _hadn’t_ kept calm, or not feigned to be more addled by that concussion than I was. These are not Dwarves as you met them, little Hobbit—these are the Petty-Dwarves of Nulukkizdin. What remained of them. They are a people disappeared, these days, though a few remained in these caves at least until Glaurung came.”  
“That long!” Bilbo exclaimed.  
A faint smile traced his lips again, pale and wan in the lantern-light. “Watch.”

  
It was funny, Bilbo thought, that a little music and a little weakness could change so much.  
The elves stripped themselves of their weapons. The dwarves tended their injuries, and their patients gasped amazement at the variety of plants used as medicine, plants Bilbo had never seen in his life. They were unique, Finrod said, to these caves where light had never penetrated, remnants of all the life that thrived in Beleriand before the Sun and Moon. And when they all were tended and the elves were largely asleep, young Finrod propped himself up on the rock and watched.  
He admitted caution, when the dwarves asked. “My fellows are convinced you intend to murder us in our sleep.” He gave a rueful shrug. “They must be well-rested before they leave, and they will not sleep if none of us keep watch. So… I suppose I have to. I hope you take no insult, for your people seem to be harboring much the same wariness as mine.”  
The spokesdwarf grumbled, but did not object.

Eventually, young Finrod pulled a delicate little contraption of silvery wood and string from a case in his pack—and why the elf had brought a lyre with him on a _guard patrol,_ Bilbo hadn’t a clue. Maybe he’d lied about the guard patrol, too. It certainly seemed strange that an elf of such nobility as Finrod would work as a mere guard when there were others around to do so. Nevertheless, he started playing softly to himself, as if in idleness, though the glint of those eyes belied his nonchalance. Would the young Finrod turn on his hosts after all? Bilbo had seen enough of Elves, by now, to know that music was a weapon sharper than any blade in their hands. And this gentle plucking was of that odd variety Bilbo had heard only after his arrival in Valinor; a different musical culture than that of all the elves of wood or glen, dissonant and unfamiliar to his ears. 

It was the music that brought calm in its wake.

The Nulukkizdin relaxed. The band of ragged elves fell into a much deeper sleep than before, and Finrod’s eyes shone softly in the darkness as he played. When his fingers grew tired, he stopped, leaving the cave in a silence broken only by the sound of marching orcs and clattering armor outside.  
“They really are searching.” A dwarf said into the silence, one with a long white beard braided into loops about their ears. “The Watcher wants you dead.”  
Young Finrod winced. “Aye. Or if not dead, then in his grasp, where he may forge us all into abominations who have no option but to do his bidding.”  
There was another long quiet.

“Lemme see that,” one of the dwarves said at last. They took the lyre between grubby hands, and, at Finrod’s raised eyebrow, gave it a strum. “My mum used to have a little lap harp, you know. Passed through the family for generations.” They plucked a delicate arpeggio from the strings. “Gone now, of course. We had to leave it behind during an attack. The Uruk probably broke it; that or it’s sittin’ in the woods still, mouldering in the dirt.”

Yes, it was amazing what a little music could do.

Finrod’s memories skipped forward again, and by the dawn, there was a whole array of instruments laid out between his younger self and the dwarves, and the rest of his troops woke with wonder in their eyes while young Finrod and the dwarves played and sang together.

Young Finrod left.  
The lights dimmed. Bilbo could just make out, now, the silhouettes of the garden surrounding them, like shifting shadows in the gloom. If he squinted, he could even see the faint glow of what had to be a Maia passing by, one of the garden attendants with hair made of chattering violet flowers that left an intoxicating scent behind them in the air.  
The Maia glanced at them, and Bilbo teetered on the edge of something vast—but Finrod met its eyes, and he must have said something with that Elvish telepathy of his, for the attendant nodded back and continued on its way. The elf relaxed. “We are still far from the center, Master Bilbo. If you do not tire, there is quite a lot more to show you.”

“Tired!” Bilbo exclaimed. “I could never tire of _history._ What happened next?”  
Finrod was clearly amused by his enthusiasm, those unfamiliar eyes laughing beneath his golden hair. “We _left,_ Master Bilbo,” he teased. “And we did not return for some time, though I did stop by with a lyre for that one fellow and leave it on the doorstep, and quietly traded with them much of what little precious materials we had left in exchange for their knowledge and medicine. The other Dwarves I knew seemed to think they would appreciate it.” He seemed to sober, then. “We Noldor laid siege to Angband. It was foolish, of course, but we did not know that yet, and did not quite seem to be losing.” A shrug. “One battle, the Enemy brought out flaming arrows, and my company’s encampment burned to the ground. We fled—and found the Nulukkizdin here under siege as well, though I truly do not think the Uruk realized these caves existed. Still, even dwarves need _some_ resources from outside their caves. We camped in the hills that night, after ambushing the Uruk who had dwelt there.”

Bilbo could not suppress a shiver. If it was anything like those marching armies from before, that must have been a _lot_ of Orcs.

“The Nulukkizdin… welcomed us.” Finrod’s voice sounded bewildered, for once, and wondering. “Not with smiles, certainly, or without caution, but they welcomed us all the same. They trusted so easily, when they had not before!”

The cavern stayed dim, then, but Bilbo could hear the voices of thousands of people, the clanking of armor, the bustle of movement all huddled in the center.

“Finrod.” That was the same spokesdwarf from before, it had to be, and their voice led Bilbo right to where young Finrod drooped. _Drooped_ was certainly the right word. He was singed and sweaty, coated in blood, fair shaking with exhaustion. If the elf had looked _tired_ before, his weariness now must be deadly. Still, that gaze was sharp when it met the dwarf’s eyes, even if his whole body trembled around it.

“Drink.” The Dwarf shoved some faintly bubbly liquid into young Finrod’s hands, their voice as gruff as ever. “It won’t kill you, just make you start thinking again. _Clearly_ you weren’t thinking, to lead your people out here bold as brass.”  
The young Finrod did not even protest. He sipped at the bottle, then made a face and chugged the rest, ignoring the startled and doubtful looks of all those Elves around him. He gasped as it burned down his throat. “What is _in_ that stuff?!”  
“Mushrooms,” the spokesdwarf smirked. “And other things.” But then all pretense of joking fell away. “Why would you do something so absolutely _stupid?!”_ they cried. “You would have all been slaughtered the next night on our very doorstep, if we had not let you in! And you did not even _ask?”_

There came a slow blink, both from the young Finrod and the old. “I took shelter here _once,_ with barely a dozen soldiers, and your people nearly kicked us out in the cold. You are not so tied up in this war as we are to begin with, and I hardly wish to draw all Morgoth’s wrath upon you, nor to let your people starve without access to the air. I did not care to impose. But I could not leave you trapped. This was the only course that might accomplish both goals.”  
“Oh, for Mahal’s sake!” The dwarf groaned. “Elves! You slept in our home, and did not harm us nor trespass. You trade with no obligation, not trying to swipe every piece of heritage we have left, only knowledge and goods that we can spare. You barely even ask for _anything_ in return for your gifts, though we _know_ you cannot always make ends meet for your own people, even if the things you give us are not the things you lack. You risk your own people’s health and safety to ensure we can continue living undisturbed—and yet despite all this, _still_ you do not consider us your allies!” They rolled their eyes. “Can your people never trust another?”  
“I… apologize?”  
“Aye, and well you should!” The spokesdwarf gave a snort. “You may not be welcome in our home forever, but you and all your company may surely rest until it is safe to leave. You’ve done us a great service. The Petty-Dwarves may be the exiles of dwarvenkind, but we still honor our debts.”

Time passed.

Bilbo knew this because his elven guide told him, as the caves faded away around them to show the garden once more shining through. And yet—the elves did not leave. They stayed, and a temporary place to hide turned into a long-term camp, and they were joined one by one by stragglers the sentries brought in. Every night there was music; every day the dwarves and elves mingled while they waited, and relations between them relaxed. One day young Finrod sat down with the Petty-Dwarves in conference, and they stayed together for hours until some conclusion was drawn.

“This day,” the elder Finrod said abruptly. “It was this day that Nargothrond was founded. We made the agreement—If I could keep my people in line, we would be allowed to stay. The Enemy had brought fire and salt to all the fields in the area, for their food is largely underground in the mountain, and we needed crops to sustain ourselves. The Nulukkizdin did not. There had been thousands of them, once upon a time, and the caves were designed to sustain such numbers—but so many of them were already extinct, there were but a few dozen left by the time of our arrival. They offered us refuge, then, so long as we kept the city secret, and did not enter their sacred spaces in the heart of the cave system without explicit leave. They even gave us leave to alter the caverns, with their guidance, and turn them into a home so long as their decisions would remain the final word.”

“So you all… stayed.” Bilbo murmured.  
“I brought some friends from the Blue Mountains,” Finrod said, nodding, “to aid in the shaping of stone. The Nulukkizdin had lost most of their tools and many of their skills in their long flight. There was some misunderstanding there for a time, but we all got along well enough.”

Bit by bit, the great cavern was lit.  
The only light came from torches, first, and plants that glowed like moonlight from within. But as the days flickered past, that vast hollow of a cave was filled—great carved pillars that twisted like branches to the roof, brightly-colored porcelain tiles baked in a pit in one corner and set into the walls as shining decoration, at first one by one and then covering the walls. The torches were soon replaced with lanterns, and with jewels and stones that glowed all on their own, made by elven jewelsmiths. A fountain, too, was built, stretching from where the Narog first poured in near the ceiling all the way into its channel through the center of the chamber, with a bridge arcing over it in pale, tiled splendor, hung all about with vines.  
The biggest change, however, was the people.  
Where there had been nothing but a handful of refugees and a few dozen fearful Dwarves, Nargothrond could now be said to _bustle._ Bilbo could pick out the different groups only at first—there were the Noldor like Finrod, elves with metal armor and loose, flowing clothing and hair in intricate designs. Of all the elves, they got along best with their hosts. There were a few Sindar, though not many, dressed in styles more familiar to him, all leather and greens, and browns, and greys. Then there were the Petty-Dwarves, shorter and more spindly than Thorin’s company had been. They kept to themselves, at first, and seemed especially suspicious of the Sindar, but acted graciously enough as a whole. Last came the Dwarves of the Blue Mountains. Their silhouette was more familiar to Bilbo, short and stocky as they carved stone from stone. They were not happy about working with the Nulukkizdin—but they did the work nonetheless, and some seemed to warm to their hosts after a time, and stay even once the stonework was largely done. Over time, the groups seemed to blend.

The work went on in the caverns for what had to be many years, until it was a beauty easily the match of any city Bilbo had ever seen. Even once the Elves had made it comfortable for their size, they kept improving it—fountains that glimmered gold under torchlight, painted tiles arranged in elaborate patterns on almost every surface. Then one by one, those lovely stained glass contraptions were tunneled in to bring light from outside within the caves. And young Finrod… healed. His eyes grew less haunted day by day, his hair regained its otherworldly shine. His hands stopped shaking. Bilbo felt an odd surge of relief, watching his guide’s younger self in those caves. The wild edge eased from that tired face.

And then the city was as it was when Bilbo first appeared and looked inside.  
It was clearly a city in truth, now, not just in name.

Bilbo made his way slowly down the stairs. He must have looked like a gawking child, his eyes wide and excited as they were. Not that anyone here could see him but the elder Finrod—and that old fellow could certainly handle escorting an enthusiastic-but-elderly Hobbit down a staircase. Even if said Hobbit kept getting distracted by the smallest of things.

How could he not be distracted? Even the smallest of things were strange and fascinating—the faint glowing lines on the walls of the caves, lined up into patterns and swirling shapes and made from what looked like some kind of moss, the agonizingly detailed carvings on the rail of the staircase, the glittering strings of _something_ hanging like crystal from the ceiling far above.

“What _are_ those things?” Bilbo asked.  
“The strings?” Finrod thought for a moment before answering. “They are some adornment put in place by the Nulukkizdin, made in their gardens. There is some bug that makes those strings and uses them to trap its prey in liquid crystal, almost like a spider. The Nulukkizdin farm them with gloves the liquid cannot stick to, and hang the strings up as decorations.” He smiled. “The bugs are quite an interesting food source, too, though I never could convince most of my company to taste them.” “Bugs!” The hobbit started. “I have never heard of bugs that could do such a thing.”

Finrod chuckled, and the sound rang like silver in the cave. “Nor will you again. I have only ever seen them in this single cave system, and even then mostly on my visits to the sacred gardens. Those gardens—” he sighed. “Alas, I have only been allowed to visit a few times. I could not show you all that I have seen there, but they are—or were—wonders of this world. The Narog there is so acidic it burns to the touch, yet there are _fish_ that swim in the stream! Fish with no eyes nor color to their scales, like pale ribbons of moonlight in the water. And there are iridescent crabs, and crayfish, both with meat so sweet they nearly taste like fruit, though they soak all day in the toxic waters. There are countless varieties of fungus glowing in the dark, and larger plants whose flesh has not a hint of green, though their flowers emit a faint light in the darkness until the eyeless birds who live there come to pollinate them.”

“I suppose without much light, the animals have little need for sight.” Bilbo mused. That all sounded rather unsettling, to be honest, even if it was grand and unique and absolutely _fascinating_. Maybe it was for the best that Finrod could not bring him there. No matter how well-studied he was, Bilbo would not have the slightest idea what he was looking at, and indeed would probably be better off here, resting among the ferns and mosses growing in the reflected light. Still, perhaps that was how the Nulukkizdin had the infrastructure to feed so many thousands of people, all while hardly leaving these caves. Come to think on it—where was Finrod? His younger self had to be here somewhere, if this was all based on memory. Bilbo cast a searching gaze around the cave.

“There you are!” he exclaimed at last. “Oh, you do look so much better now.”  
Young Finrod looked _happy_ for once. He teetered on a stepstool, immersed in the stone beneath his hands where a statue of some sort was taking shape. Was it an Elf? It had to be, between the figure’s stature and that long, braided hair, and the loving, intricate embellishment Finrod had just begun to trace on her sleeves.  
“I do, don’t I?” the elder Finrod sighed. “This was the calm before the storm, I suppose. It took fifty years to finish this place, though we kept improving it for much longer than that. They were fifty years of relative peace. We were still at war, of course, but—well, we were not clearly losing.”  
A group of dwarves stood beside his young self, chatting. There stood the spokesdwarf from before, his red hair shot all through with the silver of age. They commented on something about the statue, and young Finrod responded with a smile and a laugh, and the others suppressed what had to be a snicker. The elf stuck out his tongue, and adjusted his plain white workman’s tunic about his waist.

“I loved this place.” Finrod sounded truly certain now, where before there had only been wistfulness in his voice. “It was more my home than any other in Beleriand, and built in part by my own hands. Without it, we certainly wouldn’t have found such allies in the dwarves. And it saved us during the Dagor Bragollach, without a doubt—no matter how hot or how fast the flames of Morgoth poured, they could not envelop us here beneath the stone. If we were not hidden here, Glaurung would have surely killed us all. And where else could the survivors have retreated to? My forces were deeply overwhelmed, but we could not have fled with so many alive if we had no hidden fortress here, nor Dwarvish medicine from before the rising of Sun or Moon to heal us of our wounds. And even then—” he winced. “Were it not for the aid of Barahir and his Men, we would never have made it back in one piece.”

“Barahir.” Bilbo frowned. “He had something to do with that whole Beren and Luthien tale, did he not?”  
“He did.” There was something flat and unhappy in Finrod’s words. “But I have no wish to speak of that here.”  
“Oh, alright.” Bilbo tried not to let his discomfort show. “I don’t intend to make you speak of things you’d rather not deal with, you know. I’m simply a curious old Hobbit who doesn’t quite know when to keep his mouth shut.”  
Finrod chuckled the sad, quiet laugh of the Elves. “I know.”  
He watched his younger self a moment longer, who joked with Dwarves, and carved fine statues, and engineered cities of bright stone beauty while armies marched above them. And then he turned away.

The city flickered once again.  
Bilbo watched a man burst in, though the walls were smooth and faded with what must be centuries of use. The smoothness made them no less beautiful. And was that… Beren? His face was scarred and filthy, like that Ranger who’d travelled with Frodo once upon a time, and he carried a ring that Bilbo could have _sworn_ he’d seen on Finrod’s hand. The man’s eyes were wild when he pleaded for help, and Finrod granted it, that dangerous sharpness once more rising in his face.  
The two Elves at Finrod’s side were as classically Noldo as Bilbo had ever seen; one dark-haired with eyes like black-gold jasper brought to light, the other with hair bleached white and energy like wildfire, and a hound as big as any Warg breathing calmly at his side. The man ate, and left, and young Finrod came with him alongside a small band of guards, each of them armed to the teeth. The city faded out behind him.

“I do not wish to be here,” the elder Finrod whispered.

Bilbo tore his gaze away to look up at his host, who suddenly seemed pale and wan. Was he… scared? It seemed infinitely strange that Finrod would be scared, even by a memory of horror.  
The world flickered and they were elsewhere, an isle of perpetual darkness where dreadful creatures filled the air, and young Finrod was _singing._ There was a fortress, and a blazing eye, and Bilbo fell into terror too as for a brief, awful moment it seemed to see him—Finrod sang, and sang, and stared defiance at that horribly familiar presence, and Sauron pressed down around them all, more suffocating than all the dragon-fire in the world.

The elder Finrod gripped Bilbo’s hand, and squeezed his own eyes shut, and then they stood in Nargothrond again. The pair of them took a moment to breathe.

“I think I have begun to tire,” Finrod said at last.  
Bilbo swallowed his fear. His lungs, at least, were beginning to calm again. “You don’t say?” he managed. “Perhaps we can be done with this Garden for today.”  
“Agreed.” The elf heaved in a slow, calming breath. After a moment he let it out, staring down with an unreadable expression at the way his hands now shook anew. No, Bilbo had not imagined that fear.  
Fortunately, Finrod pulled himself under control rather quickly, all things considered. It only took a few more seconds of concentration before the city faded around them, revealing the Garden of Lorien, bright and intoxicating as ever beneath the Sun. Bilbo led the way back to the entrance. Or an entrance, anyway, as there was no way he could find the same path they had taken to get here. Before long, they stepped once more beneath the arc of trees, and could at last relax in the evening light.

“That was a wondrous tour,” Bilbo spoke. “A very nice city. I can see why the Dwarves speak as highly of it as they did.” It was wonderfully grounding, to feel dirt beneath his toes again. Still, he did not mention how it ended. Even Bilbo had enough tact not to ask about _that,_ nor did he really want to hear about fire and horror and doom if he could easily avoid it.  
He changed the subject.  
“Actually, how would you like to come over for tea, and perhaps a snack? We can talk about lighthearted things, gossip and plants and things of that nature. Maybe my Frodo will even be there! I’m not sure how he spends so much time in those Gardens, you know, but he does come to visit me every once in a while. Perhaps you can recommend some books for me to read!”

Finally, _finally,_ Finrod returned to the present, his arm relaxing in Bilbo’s grip.  
Relief flooded up through his feet. _Poor fellow,_ Bilbo thought, though it felt strange to think anything of the sort about an ancient Elven king. _I think some light exercise and food will do him good, after all that._

“Books, hm?” Finrod graced him with another tired little smile. “And a Hobbit’s cooking. I would be delighted.”  
  



End file.
